Contrition
by Flaming Kitten
Summary: Contrition: sorrow for and detestation of sin with a true intention of amendment, arising from a love of God or from fear of divine punishment.


**Author's Note**: This is a request from TheFreelancerSeal and a break from my other story La Mere. It revolves around the opening song of the movie: specifically, the lines "You can't hide what you've done from the eyes of Notre Dame." & "Frollo felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul." I hope y'all like it. Reviews are much appreciated!

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**"For we must all appear before the judgment seat of Christ, that each one may receive what is due him for the things done while in the body, whether good or bad." II Corinthians 5:10**

It was cold. The man felt as if he was treading on a carpet of burning thorns. Each step was accompanied by fresh torment. His frostbitten feet cried out for relief as he slogged through the snowy streets of Ile de la Cite.

Curiously, the town was dead silent, despite the raging wind that fought to tear the thin cloak from the man's back. Though the island was a mere fragment of Paris, it never lacked for the liveliness that the City of Light had always been known for. Yet now, the little island seemed dead, the streets were empty, every window darkened, and the shadow of every building seemed to stir and lengthen.

Cold dread crept down the man's spine. It wasn't right! Where were the people? The bright tapestries and garishly adorned vendors? The music and the incessant chatter of the commoners? Why was the city adorned in nothing but grey and white and black? It was confounding. And terrifying. The man's heart began to pound rapidly. Sick with an undefined fear, the man began to run to the safest place he knew, Notre Dame de Paris.

As he climbed the frost covered steps to the great cathedral, the man began to rethink his decision to come here. The church looked like the last place to seek sanctuary. Its towering spires and curved arches seemed imposing rather than inviting. The multitude of stone gargoyles leered down at him with undisguised malice. But by far the worst were the statues in the forms of men. From their lofty vantages upon the walls of the church, they seemed to peer down at the man with thinly veiled contempt, as if thinking, 'such a sinful man does not belong here.' In particular, the visage of Christ himself seated upon the throne of glory caught the man's gaze.

The stone eyes pierced straight through his mortal shell into his troubled soul. They held the promise of judgment, but also the hope of forgiveness. As the wind blew and the frozen saints looked on, the man began to quake.

He called out, "S-Sanctuary!"

The eyes merely continued to gaze down at him.

"I beg of you…" he pleaded. "Sanctuary."

A soft, yet firm voice spoke, not from any external source, but within the man's mind.

"To find sanctuary within these walls, thou must atone for thy sins."

The man scoffed. He had done no wrong. What did he have to atone for?

The eyes seemed to fill with an untold sorrow.

The voice spoke again, "The beginning of atonement is the sense of its necessity."

"But," the man began, "My conscience is clear."

"Yet here ye stand, before me, seeking mercy," countered the voice.

The man had nothing left with which to argue his case. It was so very cold. And he was so very tired.

"Please…" he whispered.

The voice answered in a chilly tone, "If ye confess thy sins, I am faithful and just and will forgive thy sins and purify ye from all unrighteousness."

With that, a gust of wind hit the man square in the chest, sending him careening down the church steps. He landed in a heap at the bottom and would have stayed there if not for the shadows. From the depths of the frigid darkness stepped cloaked apparitions. Their faces were hidden and they made no sound. The man scrambled to his feet and made to run away, but he was trapped. The specters closed in around him, until all he could do was back away in a straight line. It wasn't very long until his back met with a barrier. He turned…and stared down into the endless depths of a well. From the black abyss came the smell of damp and decay, not unlike graveyard soil.

As the man stared into the well a new figure began to emerge. First came the hands, blackened and disfigured by frost bite. They clawed at the rim of the well for purchase and finding some, began to hoist the rest of the body up. The man turned to run, but a silent wall of the cloaked phantoms blocked any path he might have taken. There would be no escape, so he turned back to the well. The figure had already managed to haul itself halfway out, and was now clutching at the ground in an awkward attempt to free itself fully. It finally tumbled to the ground and crawled its way to the man's feet.

The man hardly needed to look at it to know it was a gypsy woman. Dressed in filthy grey rags that should have been a patchwork of purples and blues and missing the faux golden jewelry that had decorated her limbs, she was in a sorry state. Her feet were bound in rags and flimsy pieces of leather to ward off the cold. Black hair that should have been secured beneath a head scarf hung down in icy clumps. She grasped at his cloak and looked up at him with hollow eyes.

"Sanctuary, please give us sanctuary," she whispered.

"I can't," he replied tremulously.

"Please," she cried, "You call yourself a man of god? Then help us!"

The man sobbed, "I'm sorry, I wasn't fast enough. I couldn't…"

The woman screamed. As he watched on in horror, black tendrils burst forth and coiled around her, dragging her back toward the well. Just as her waist disappeared down the hole, the man lurched forward, reaching for her hands.

"Please," she moaned, "my son…"

"You can have it." The man yelled. "Sanctuary! I give you sanctuary."

The woman's face shifted. Was that a smile, or a grimace?

"Give… him. Give it to him." Her last words to him.

He missed her deformed hands by a sliver of an inch and could do nothing but watch as she disappeared into the unknown depths of the well. The man fell to his knees in despair. He hung his head and disregarding the menacing specters that had once again begun to close in on him, he closed his eyes. In view of the church and all of its stone occupants, the Archdeacon clasped his hands and began to confess.

"Forgive me father, for I have sinned…"

Behind him, the great wooden doors of the cathedral creaked open.

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